One Is A Lonely Number
by pindergast
Summary: Sherlock and John have been friends for 42 years...but as their days are numbered, they learn that even they cannot escape the cruel hands of time.


**Suggested reading soundtrack: The Way - Zack Hemsey**

* * *

**One is a Lonely Number**

_"Mr. Holmes?...Mr. Holmes, are you…are you alright, sir?"_ the man asked over the phone.

"When? When did this happen?" Sherlock choked.

_"This morning, sir."_

Sherlock couldn't breathe. Each word on the other end of the line was another punch in the stomach.

_"Do you need anything, sir?"_

There was a long pause before he answered, "I need…I need…J—," but he couldn't finish.

Sherlock ended the call, leaving him alone to grieve.

* * *

They had been friends for nearly 42 years, Sherlock and John. And in those 42 years, their friendship only became stronger. In Sherlock's mind, John was his only friend, and he told him that once, when they were young. When they still did cases together, they were inseparable. Even when John got married, even when he had children and grandchildren, they were still friends—brothers, really.

Sherlock was alone for most of his life, save John. Mycroft was never much comfort, as they never really got along. But now, Mycroft was dead. He died nearly a decade ago.

Mrs. Hudson was also gone, along with Lestrade, and even Molly. Sherlock and John were the only ones left.

* * *

John was 82 when he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. It wasn't much of a surprise, thought, as he was growing older and feebler.

Sherlock was 78 when he was diagnosed with lung cancer. Both of them quickly learned that even they could not escape the cruel hands of time and age. Their days were limited.

John was moved into a retirement home, living away from his wife, Mary. Sherlock visited him frequently, as his cancer was still in the early stages of development. John was bedridden, but it was for the best. The doctors said it would help him recover, staying in his room, undergoing treatment. But Sherlock knew that it wouldn't have made a difference. With each visit, Sherlock saw that John's voice was becoming quieter, his face paler, and his energy waning.

* * *

Sherlock sat in his chair, still in 221B. He stared at the chair that had once been known as 'John's chair'. Every time he came, he would still sit in that chair, claiming it to be his. Sherlock remembered the day when John had trouble standing up from it. He remembered John wiping the tears from his eyes when he told him about his condition in that chair. He remembered when John last sat in that chair, telling Sherlock that he was moving.

Now, there were tears in Sherlock's eyes as these memories came in like violent waves, flooding his vision and all his thoughts.

* * *

Sherlock began visiting John every day. The doctors would tell him that is condition was worsening, and to prepare for the worst. Sherlock, of course, thought that doctors were idiots. He knew that John would hold out.

That day, he entered John's room, now filled with medical equipment, IV stands, and other medications keeping John alive. He was staring at the ceiling, his head resting on the pillow. Usually, John heard Sherlock come in, but he didn't turn his head.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said, his voice raspy and rough with age.

It took a few moments before John turned to face Sherlock, but his eyes wandered somewhere else. He could hear and see, but his mind was elsewhere, lost the storm clouding his mind.

"Sherlock," he nearly whispered. "Weren't—"he stopped to release a loud cough, "…weren't you here…just now?" he asked.

"No. That was yesterday…remember?"

"Ah…yes," he nodded, but Sherlock could tell that he didn't really remember.

Sherlock set down his cane and pulled a rolling chair next to John's bed. He didn't speak at first, as he knew that John wouldn't really hear him. He was staring at the ceiling again, his arms limp at his sides, his face more pallid than ever.

After several minutes of silence, Sherlock leaned into his line of sight, "Do you remember when I told you to punch me in the face?"

John turned his head, "Yeah. Sort of. I'm sure I complied."

Sherlock laughed, "You sure did."

John smiled as he reminisced. "Do—" he coughed, "…do you remember when you drugged me at Baskerville?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that," he patted John's hand. "Remember—" he began, but his voiced was choked, "…remember when you introduced me to crap telly?"

John's lip was quivering now, "Yes. God awful, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock felt his eyes fill with hot tears. He wasn't sure why he was crying.

John waited a beat, "Remember when you told me that you didn't have any friends…" John muttered quietly as his voice trailed off.

Sherlock felt a tear escape his eyes. "Do you remember what I said?"

John didn't answer at first. It looked like he was trying to remember, but he couldn't find the right memory. He remained still, unresponsive.

"Just one…" Sherlock reminded him. "One…"

John smiled weakly. "That's right," he murmured. His eyes were becoming heavy.

"I was alone…I never wanted to admit it, but…but I—" Sherlock sobbed. He couldn't bring himself to say it, but based on John's understanding expression, he knew what he wanted to say.

"You didn't like being alone, did you?"

Sherlock looked down at John's hand, lying on the mattress. It was old and wrinkled, an IV needle stuck in it. He shook his head. "No…" he said, but it was almost inaudible.

John's hand moved slightly. "Neither did I."

* * *

Sherlock was dressed in a black suit with his Belstaff coat. It was worn and slightly tattered after the many years he had it, but he couldn't seem to let it go. He looked in the mirror above the fireplace.

_Don't do that._

_Do what?_

_The look._

_Look?_

_You're doing the look again._

_Well, I can't see it, can I?_

He stepped forward to look at himself. He ran his fingers through the little hair he had left, remembering the dark, curly hair he once had. He let his hand trail down his face as he scrutinized every wrinkle and crease.

_It's my face._

_Yes, it's doing a thing. You're doing a 'we both know what's really going on here' face._

_Well, we do._

_No. I don't, which is why I find 'the face' so annoying._

Sherlock chuckled to himself, remembering that day in vivid detail. But he furrowed his brow as he looked at himself now: white hair, old face, rotting lungs, deteriorated mind. He turned away from the mirror, unable to bear the memories any longer. After grabbing his cane, he left.

* * *

Sherlock stayed by John's bed as they reminisced about their past. They did this nearly every time he came, both of them with renewed memories. Sherlock wasn't one for nostalgia, but John seemed to enjoy it, and in turn, so did Sherlock. After several of these walks down memory lane, he discovered a new sensation—a warm, tingling feeling in his chest.

At first, he thought it was the cancer, but he eventually dismissed that. How could something as horrible as cancer feel so…nice? He asked John about it one day, and he told him that he didn't know. Sherlock knew he was lying, but decided not to push further.

On this day, he felt the same sensation, but it was much stronger, more vibrant. He didn't understand what was happening.

_More human emotions I don't understand?_

Sherlock was interrupted by a loud beeping coming from one of the monitors John was hooked up to. He looked up, hoping it wasn't the heart monitor. When he saw the crooked lines scrolling across the screen, he sighed in relief. Within seconds, a team of doctors was in the room. Sherlock asked one of them what was wrong.

"We're not sure yet," one of them said. "Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to leave."

"Can I say goodbye?"

The doctor looked at him for a moment, sympathy in her eyes, "Yes," she said as she stepped aside, motioning for the others to do the same.

Sherlock leaned forward to look at John. "My friend…my dear Watson…" Sherlock whispered.

"You'll come again tomorrow, right?"

"Of course. Like always. I'll be here tomorrow."

"Good. If you skip out on me, I'll clobber you. I had my fair share of violence in the army."

"You were a doctor," Sherlock said, remembering a past conversation of theirs.

"I had bad days," he said, but he paused, looking at Sherlock as a tear cascaded down his cheek, "…and this is one of my worst."

Sherlock felt his stomach twist. "I'll see you tomorrow," he whispered.

"Tomorrow."

"Goodbye, John."

"Goodbye."

At that moment, one of the doctors ushered him out of the room as John's body deflated and his eyes slowly closed.

* * *

The next day, he got ready to visit John again—he wasn't going to break his promise. He got dressed and grabbed his coat. But before he could leave, his phone rang.

He turned to it, wondering if he should pick it up. He walked over to it check the caller ID. When he saw that the number was that of the home John was staying in, he immediately answered.

"Yes?"

_"Is this…Sherlock Holmes?"_

"Yes. M-May I ask who this is?" he asked, even thought he already knew.

_"I'm from the retirement facility Mr. Watson resided in,"_ his phrasing was terrifyingly finalized.

"…Yes, what is it? Has something happened?"

_"Mr. Holmes…I…"_

"Just tell me. What's wrong? Has John's condition worsened?"

_"Mr. Holmes…I regret to inform you that…your friend, John…I'm afraid he has passed away."_

Sherlock took a shaky breath, the information not completely registering. "But…but that's impossible. I just saw him—I just talked to him yesterday. He can't be…"

_"I am so sorry, Mr. Holmes—my deepest condolences."_

"Shut up," he snapped. He felt another odd sensation in his chest—it was the opposite of what he felt before. He was cold…hollow, like there was nothing inside of him anymore. Like his heart, his lungs, his soul had just disappeared. A chill ran down his spine as the words echoed in his head.

John was dead.

Sherlock was silent as he tried to clear his mind.

_There had to be some mistake. He _has _to be alive._

He never felt such sorrow so abruptly before, but never knew much comfort, since he never experienced such things. The only comfort he ever knew was…John.

_"Mr. Holmes?...Mr. Holmes, are you…are you alright, sir?"_ the man asked over the phone.

"When? When did this happen?" Sherlock choked.

_"This morning, sir."_

Sherlock couldn't breathe. Each word on the other line was another punch in the stomach.

_"Do you need anything, sir?"_

There was a long pause before he answered, "I need…I need..J—," but he couldn't finish.

Sherlock ended the call, leaving him alone to grieve.

He let the phone drop to the floor and held his head in his hands. He was breathing through clenched teeth, but it was difficult in his condition. "John…" he cried, but his voice cracked, his breath uneven. Tears began to sting his eyes. He had never felt so utterly hollow.

It was so cold…the feeling of loss. He had felt it before, but not like this. He had never cared so much to mourn like ordinary people did. There was no point. Everyone was destined to die at some point.

_I just wish I had gone before him._

He cried out again, his hands clutching his head. He couldn't breathe.

_John…my only friend…my only friend…Gone…_

He was crying now, screaming with his black lungs, his diseased-ridden self.

_Why couldn't I die?! Why do I have to go through this?!_

He was alone. Sherlock Holmes was truly alone. And he would be alone for the rest of his life.

* * *

Sherlock arrived at the funeral home two days after John's death. There weren't too many people there—just his immediate family and a few others Sherlock had never met. The funeral was miserable, as all funerals were. Sherlock stayed in the corner, away from everyone, refusing to speak, refusing to see John in his coffin.

They then proceeded to the cemetery, where they were led to John's final resting place. Sherlock kept a rigid expression as they lowered the coffin into the ground. He tried his best to ignore the cries of grief coming from those around him.

When the burial was over and everyone was leaving, he saw Mary, John's wife, surrounded by her children and grandchildren, all with tear-streaked faces. Mary broke away from them, patting their shoulders as they sobbed. She hobbled over to Sherlock, who was still standing by John's grave.

"Hello, stranger," she smiled as she greeted him.

He nodded politely.

"How're you doing?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"Isn't it obvious?" she joked as he motioned to her red face. She let a quick sob escape before she looked at the tombstone in front of them. They stood in silence for a few moments before Sherlock spoke.

"Were you with him? When he…" he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

She nodded, "Yes."

Sherlock felt a tear stream down his face. "Good. Good…"

"He asked for me, in his final moments," Mary continued.

"Yes…rightly so."

"…And the kids…"

Sherlock nodded again.

"…And you…"

He turned to her, incredulous. His breath was shaky as he imagined John in his last moments of life, on the hospital bed, Mary at his side. He wondered was his last words were, but he didn't ask. He thought it would make it worse.

He must have been crying, because Mary wrapped her feeble arms around him as she began to cry anew.

There were so many words that were left unsaid at that moment, but they remained silent, both knowing what the other would say.

"Mary…"

"Hm?"

"I think—I think I'm going to die soon."

Mary looked up at him with a pained expression. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know how much longer I'll last," he said simply. In truth, he thought that the emptiness in his chest was too much to bear. It was as if all of the life that was left in him had been drained, leaving a hollow shell.

"I'm glad you were there for him, Mary," he finished as he let go of her, staring at the tombstone.

Mary stood there for a minute, but when Sherlock remained still, she walked away.

Sherlock sat on a bench, close to the grave. His hands were trembling, and his breath was short. It was growing harder and harder to breathe at all.

He stared at the name 'John H. Watson' engraved on the stone through his watery eyes.

He gagged slightly.

"I don't have much longer, my friend," he grinned. "But in my last moments, I don't want to be alone."

His lip was quivering. "Tell me…do you remember…" he sobbed, his voice becoming raspy, "do you remember when I jumped off a building…and you thought I was dead? You know, even if I had died, I wouldn't have been alone. You would have been there with me. You were there. And John…my deepest regret…I wasn't with you…I wasn't with you when it was over.

"I'm sorry…John…"

He clenched his fists as he struggled to speak, "My friend…my one friend…"I was so alone…and I owe you so much…" he whispered, remembering what John had said when he stood before Sherlock's grave.

Sherlock felt himself slump into the bench, his arms falling to his sides, his heart rate slowing. He began coughing, and breathing was becoming nearly impossible.

"You know," he croaked, "my greatest fear was dying alone," his body relaxed. "I always thought I would die alone. But…I guess dying side by side with a friend is perfectly satisfactory," he grinned.

There was another tingling sensation in his chest—a mixture. There was the pain…the pain of dying. There was the grief…the sorrow. Then, there was the warmth. He let his memories flood his head as he took his final breaths.

"Goodbye, John."

Then, there was nothing but light.


End file.
